


Thy Plaintive Anthem Fades

by Rhaella



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhaella/pseuds/Rhaella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Nirnaeth, Finduilas must accept that Fate is not as kind to some as it is to others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thy Plaintive Anthem Fades

Finduilas has seen what true love looks like. She was only able to speak with Lúthien briefly before the sons of Fëanor hid her away from any who might help her, but she remembers the conviction in her cousin’s voice when she spoke of Beren. “Tol-in-Gaurhoth, you ask? I will follow him even to _Angband_ if I must."  
  
Finduilas thought her mad at the time. Now she knows better.  
  
***  
  
When the messengers from Hithlum finally arrive, the King turns everybody out of his hall to speak with them privately. Even Finduilas.  
  
She knows then that something terrible has happened.  
  
They tell her at first only that the entire company was slain, and she pushes aside the heartbreak as best she can, reminding herself that she is a princess of the House of Finwë; her own sorrows are inconsequential next to those of her people. It is only afterward that she notices the sidelong glances, the worried whispers that cut off as soon as she draws near. _Broke through the very gates of Angband_ , she hears, and she knows that there is more to the tale than she has been told.  
  
The full story emerges slowly, painfully, each fact more difficult to bear than the last. She learns of Gelmir, whom they had mourned sixteen years ago… Gelmir, who had been almost like another brother to her for a time. Memories that might have comforted her sicken her instead; she and Gwindor had tried to move past the pain of their losses, never guessing, never imagining—  
  
And now Gwindor was gone as well.  
  
 _(“I know that he is not dead,” Lúthien had told her, her voice quiet and steady, her last tear long since shed. “I know in my heart that he still lives, and I will not rest until he is free again.”)_  
  
Finduilas is not entirely sure what she does or doesn’t know. All she could say for certain is that she cannot mourn for a man who may not be dead—who may be far, far worse than dead. She cannot bear to be wrong again, even if it means—  
  
 _(“Would you be able to stand aside, Faelivrin? Would you be able to do nothing?” Lúthien had demanded, and she wishes now that she had been able to **help** , because the answer is as clear as the waters for which she was named.)_  
  
Finduilas has spent months reminding herself that she is a daughter of the House of Finwë, with all of the responsibilities that entails. Now she remembers the rest as well: her father’s stories of the crossing of the Ice, her uncle’s sacrifice, her cousin Fingon’s now legendary rescue of Maedhros. Lúthien’s words whisper in her dreams, and her despair begins to morph into something _else_ , something different, something ever so slightly fey.  
  
Saddling her favourite horse late one evening, Finduilas tries not to think too much about what she is doing.  
  
***  
  
Nargothrond’s scouts find her almost immediately, and she does not think to resist when they bring her back to the city, to her father’s chambers.  
  
She expects him to be upset with her, to be disappointed by her disregard for her own safety, for the secrecy of the kingdom itself. Instead, he only looks tired and perhaps somewhat sorrowful — it is difficult to be certain; sorrow has clung to him like another robe in the years since Finrod’s death. “You think he is still alive," he says simply.  
  
"I have grown used to assuming the worst."  
  
For a moment, Orodreth looks like he is about to argue the point, but in the end he merely nods. “You would only have joined him, Finduilas."  
  
"And if the alternative is to simply _forget_ him? To hope he is dead and move on, abandoning him to Morgoth’s mercies? Lúthien—"  
  
"The rules are _**different**_ for Lúthien," her father snaps, and he is so rarely angry that Finduilas can only stare at him in surprise for a moment. “Lúthien was not Doomed," he adds more calmly, though she knows him well enough to guess that it was not the first thought that came to his mind. “We are. Even you, as unjust as that may seem. Promise me that you will remember that in the future."  
  
She knows that he is right. She knows that she is Faelivrin, not Tinúviel, and as much as that should not make a difference, she senses that it does. She nods in silent acquiescence, and her father sighs.  
  
"He would want you to live, and if by some cruel chance he is still alive himself, then the thought of you safely here must give him some small comfort. Please, Finduilas, do not make that into a lie."  
  
She wants to argue, she wants to reject his reasoning as timid and self-serving, but she finds herself nodding again instead, and her father finally dismisses her, no longer worried that she might attempt something foolish.  
  
She does not try to run away again.  
  
***  
  
When Gwindor returns, he is horrified that she had even considered coming after him. But then, so many things horrify him now that she sees little reason to take comfort in that. Or anything else.  
  
He is changed more than she had thought possible, but that alone she could have borne. When she looks at him, it is not his weakened form or his aged appearance that she sees. It is not even the many scars that line his psyche now.  
  
No, it is her own failure, her own regret, her own abandonment that she sees, and that is even worse.


End file.
